


He Will Remember

by Arsenic and (Oleander)



Series: What He Wants [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, Ficlet, M/M, Omega John, Pre-Slash, Slash, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oleander/pseuds/Arsenic%20and
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Sherlock for the first time is something John will remember perfectly for the rest of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Will Remember

**Author's Note:**

> I hit my word count goal for NaNo and then wrote this as a reward, and because I got a review on the series three days ago. I was wondering if anyone was still reading these...
> 
> John and Sherlock are still underage for a number of countries in this part, but don't do anything worth upping the rating for.
> 
> This story is neither beta'ed nor Britpicked, and American spellings are used for consistency.

The first time John darts in and kisses Sherlock on the cheek, it’s so brief, so fleeting, that Sherlock tells him later he had wondered if he’d imagined it. John will remember it perfectly, though, the way Sherlock looked in the half-light of dusk in that dingy alleyway, sharp cheekbones highlighted, eyes aglow with triumph as Lestrade’s subordinates drag the unconscious smuggler away. Sherlock had been reluctant to bring John with him this time, and with good cause: the smuggler had set eyes on John, and planned to take him next. John had seen the rage in Sherlock’s eyes when he had realized, and for a moment he’d thought he might see Sherlock lose all reason. But he’d reined it in, and Sherlock, in a feat of observation and logic he’d never reached before, identified the man’s height, weight, hair color, preferred weapon, home, work, and hunting ground, and then chased him there, sending a runner to summon the police to where Sherlock knew he could ambush him. It had been a marvel to watch. True, it had made John shiver a bit, to see the control Sherlock could exert over his own mind, as if the world and its inhabitants were a simple map for him to read. But— _beautiful._  
  
So John kisses him. So what?  
  
“What did you do that for?” Sherlock asks, self-assurance fled in an instant.  
  
“I wanted to,” John replies simply, shrugging. And then he catches Sherlock’s hand and tangles their fingers together. “Let’s go home.” He smiles a little, and lets himself lean on Sherlock’s shoulder, enjoying the stunned silence, and feeling not unlike the cat that ate the cream. Even Mycroft’s waiting silhouette in the warm yellow glow of the townhouse door cannot shake the feeling from him. John nods a goodnight, squeezes Sherlock’s hand once, then lets go and slips away to his room, leaving Sherlock to face his brother alone.  
  
He’s not surprised to receive late-night visitors to his room. Mycroft arrives first, just as John is setting down his textbooks for the night. John’s learned better than to ask Mycroft questions; after a year in the house he knows he wouldn’t get any straight answers if he tries. Instead, John waits silently, letting Mycroft make his evaluations. It’s also no good trying to hide things, so John’s decided that he won’t feel shame, at least not about Sherlock. If Mycroft is ever embarrassed when he observes John’s reactions to his brother, that’s his problem. Not that he ever seems disturbed by anything. So John waits, refusing to drop his gaze from Mycroft’s face.  
  
When Mycroft finally speaks, he only says, “Goodnight, John,” which is strange by most people’s definitions, but not completely unexpected. It’s Mycroft, after all. John stays awake a little longer, but eventually his eyes start to sting, so he closes them, a little disappointed.  
  
John’s not sure how long he’s been asleep when the creak of his door opening wakes him. This time it’s Sherlock of course. John pretends to be asleep until he feels the weight of Sherlock’s body shifting his mattress. For a moment, he holds his breath, then lets out a sigh as Sherlock’s weight shifts again, away from John. No kiss, then.  
  
John slides back towards his pillows, pushing his torso up so he’s leaning against the headboard. He can see Sherlock’s outline crouched at the foot of his bed, knees to his chest—a hulking shadow that reminds John, whimsically, of a frog about to leap. “What time is it, Sherlock?” he asks.  
  
“Don’t know,” Sherlock says, sulkily. “Why did you kiss me?”  
  
“Told you,” John answers. “I wanted to. Did you not like it?” He squints, trying to see Sherlock’s face more clearly, though it doesn’t help.  
  
“Why did you want to?” Sherlock’s voice has gone thin and strained.  
  
“I like you. It felt like the right thing to do, I guess.”  
  
“Are you going to do it again?”  
  
“Do you want me to?”  
  
A long pause. Sherlock's shadowed form rocks back and forth for a moment, and then: “Not during cases. After is okay, I guess.”  
  
John lets out a little huff of repressed laughter. “Are you going to kiss me, then?”  
  
Sherlock’s form tilts forward again at that, not in concerted effort to get closer to John’s face for a kiss, but for loss of balance. He catches himself and scrambles back upright, as far from John as he can be while still being on the bed. John allows himself another laugh. It feels nice, for once, to not be simply at the mercy of the Holmes brothers, but actually affecting them.  
  
“I might,” Sherlock finally says, sulkiness replacing the plaintive tone once more. “Good night, John.”  
  
Sherlock slips off the bed, slides silently across the floor, and is out the door in the next breath, somehow closing it without the tell-tale creak.  
  
John laughs to himself again, because of _course_ Sherlock can make the door not squeak if he wants to. With that thought, he slides back down beneath his covers, turns on his side, and settles into contented sleep again in moments.  
  
The expression that crosses Mycroft’s face at breakfast the next morning can only be described as utter consternation. Then, of course, he finishes his deductions and sighs in relief, becoming a monument to stoicism and self-control once more. Still, John will cherish the memory of Mycroft with his jaw practically on the floor forever. He expects Sherlock will too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you feel I have missed any major warning tags. 
> 
> The story rating is likely to go up in the next installment, which is in progress.
> 
> As always, feedback (concrit) is very welcome.


End file.
